In Any Language
by Hillside Dancing On
Summary: It means the same. A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.
1. Over: China and Japan

**Disclaimer:** Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this work of fiction.

**Characters:** China and Japan  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1156  
><strong>Summary: <strong>A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.

* * *

><p>For all the time that had passed since the bamboo groves, there were days when China didn't think he would ever become fully accustomed to the idea of being a parent.<p>

It was one thing to care for yourself, and it was one thing to care for the people who inhabited your home, but there was something entirely surreal in the stewardship of another life – in learning how to soak the rice so it would be ready at the same time the washing was finished; how to pull a splinter painlessly, or explain why an oriole's shell on the roadside could not be pieced back together. Even in simple times such as then, returning from the river with their basket of clothes hoisted over one shoulder, smelling of plant ash and gleditsia fruit, there were moments when the dark haired, silent child beside him felt so _impermanent._ Like a tendril of mist, breezing past him in an instant and gone as quickly as it had come.

Heaven forbid. Bewildering as it all may have been, life without Japan was not something he could even begin to envision.

"You look lost in thought," he commented to his charge, who was softly chewing his lip. "Another one of your little poems, aru?"

For a while now, Japan had gotten into the habit of constructing short poems about the world around them. Always in sets of three phrases, brief flashes of impossible loveliness, of which China had only been able to coax him into sharing one or two (the last had spoke of blooming camellia flowers). Japan nodded, porcelain face unreadable. "Hai."

"Can you tell me what this one is about?"

"The birds, Yao-sensei," was the eternally patient reply. As though he, China, were the overly inquisitive toddler disrupting a very important line of thought. "There's a pair of blackbirds singing somewhere. I think they may be following us."

Even as he nodded along, listening, a disquiet that was not unfamiliar arose in China's mind. On one hand, Japan was gentle and thoughtful, and each day brought with it new reasons to adore that quality in him. On the other, it simply didn't seem _right_ for a child to be so collected, so utterly stoic. China may have been old, but not so much so that the days of being young – alone yet carefree, miles and miles of sky, everything between Heaven and earth his personal playground – had faded from his mind. While he could remember climbing trees, finding pheasant's nests, tumbling in the bamboo groves, and squelching through too much mud to ever be reasonably measured, even Japan's play seemed perfectly organized, as though by some invisible charter written up days in advance.

Surely every child needed a certain quota of dirt under their nails to grow up properly?

Presently, his thoughts were intruded on by a certain sound, the lick and babble of running water. Running across the path directly en route to home was a small but very distinct overflow, a miniature river flattening grass and reflecting the sunlight through the trees. Tilting his head, Japan studied it with a puzzling mixture of curiosity and offense.

"That wasn't there when we first came through," he declared, as though expecting the water to hear, take the hint, apologize, and redirect itself.

"Just some runoff from the river, aru. Remember? All those rainstorms we've had, aru." As though Japan would ever forget. He was inordinately fond of sitting up and watching the rain fall through a crack in the door, usually until China picked him up and took him bodily off to bed.

The little nation stepped forward, dipping the toe of his sandal into the water investigatively, though China knew perfectly well he wasn't afraid of getting wet – you couldn't be, when your home was made up of thousands of islands – and looking more and more like the studious old man China so often teased him as.

"Want me to help you across, aru?"

"I can make it myself."

"Oh, I know you can. But I can think of another way. Much more fun, aru." He set down the laundry basket, which was beginning to set his shoulder aching, and held out both hands. Japan stared at them dubiously.

"Will this hurt?"

"Not even a little, aru."

"Are you sure?

"If it does, you can scold me all the way home." That seemed to do it, and tiny fingers entwined firmly into his. And he lifted.

If there had ever been a way to snatch images from the air in an instant, turn them solid and hoard them away forever, oh, how China longed for it then. Anything to have captured the look on Japan's face when his feet left the ground. The little body curled up and in, trying to find purchase where there was none, toes scrabbling at the air. But he never let go, and he never asked to be put back down, and China swung back – then let him go. Clear on the other side of the water, he landed on his feet, only to stumble and collapse into the soft grass on pudgy hands and knees.

Where he remained. Staring at the ground, wearing a stunned expression.

"Not so bad, right?" China asked, stepping closer. No response came, and suddenly his heart was dropping as he hovered on the cusp of hating himself. If he'd hurt him or frightened in any way...

"Kiku?"

And then Japan was looking up at him with the widest, most delighted eyes China had ever known.

"Again."

China started. Blinked...and smiled. Well, then.

The clothes could wait to dry, anyway.

The first time Japan ran back to him, he hop-skipped through the water like a cat. The second time, he crashed through unabashedly, soaking through his sandals. The third, he stopped trying to catch himself on his feet altogether, and took to rolling in the grass as he lost his ability to stop smiling. China could never deny him, any more than he could quell the glow around his own heart.

Inevitably, he knew, there would come a day when Japan no longer returned to his outstretched hands; when the little nation grew as strong and sturdy and brilliant as China always hoped he would be. When that time came, he couldn't be sure if either of them would ever remember this day in the forest, how quickly a fat trickle of river water could become something beautiful to be launched over. Truth be told, it didn't matter. The noonday sun was warm, and Japan was seeking out him alone. Staggering, blinking dizzily, but always sure of where to find him.

And somewhere, somewhere high among the treetops, their laughter was mingling together, as though to make them a part of each other.


	2. On Snakes: Ancient Greece and Greece

**Disclaimer:** Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this work of fiction.

**Characters:** Ancient Greece and Greece  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 984  
><strong>Summary: <strong>A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.

* * *

><p>"Would you love me if I changed into snakes?"<p>

The dust is rising up beneath their sandals as they walk along the road, leisurely watching the day turn to gold in its closing. There is sea-salt in the humid air, and the scent of olives being pulled. There is all the time in the world until he has to go to bed.

She asks him what brings this on, and he can't quite say for certain; that would mean sorting through every story she has ever told him (an impossible feat in itself) for those involving snakes, serpents, and wyrms. The first thing to come to mind is Medusa, her venomous hair and freshly spilled blood becoming vipers the moment it rained down on the Saharan sands. He shrugs.

"I just want to know."

She squeezes his hand, battle scars pressing into all the soft places on his palm.

"Heraklesion, I would love you if you changed into a thousand snakes, right at this very moment."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes." And then she smiles in just such a way that he knows it's going to become a game. "I would hunt down every last one and tie them together, so I could have you again."

"Even if they got into the ocean?"

"Even then."

He digests this, twirling a strand of hair around his finger and making it wavier than it already is. "What would you do if they crawled into Rome's house?"

If there is one thing in the world his mother hates more than snakes, it's the Roman Empire. Herkales doesn't like him either, his overly loud voice and the way he tries to put his arms around his mother; the way he professes to love her, as though he'd never paraded her plundered artwork through his streets. Never sent her home from the battlefield injured.

She smiles, wide and white. "Oh, Rome would just like to think he could stop me! I would go up to his door and say, 'Rome! You're just going to have to stand aside and let me in. My Herakles has turned into snakes, and I'm going in there to find him!' Then I would look all through his house, and I would pour his wine onto the floor and pull off all the bedsheets, even if I didn't need to. Rome couldn't keep me from you." Her hands work invisible patterns through the air as she speaks, enunciating each word and making it beautiful.

"You should throw his sword into the ocean," he suggests jubilantly. "Then you could stay home, instead of going away to fight him."

They move to one side of the road as a farmer shepherding a small flock of goats passes by. Herakles slows down to watch the sleek, furry bodies, the does fat as vases with their unborn kids, all of them bleating and cajoling, and he misses the moment of weight that passes through his mother's eyes.

They pass on by, leaving him to dodge the cloud of dust as he runs to catch up with her, seeking her hand again.

"How would you catch the snakes?" he asks, never missing a beat.

"With my hands."

"You can't do that, they'd bite you." Her eyes widen in mock horror.

"_Papai'! _What is this? My own boy doubts his mana can catch snakes bare-handed?" She makes a grab for him that sends him scurrying about her legs, around and around until she finally catches him and tickles his ribs furiously, making him shriek. "Such faith he has in me!"

He writhes in her arms and cries out gleeful protests. Out in a nearby field, several workers turn their heads.

"Alright, alright!" He finally concedes, breathless, and she lets him go. "How would you find them?"

"Find them?"

"Well, snakes don't go to one place. They hide under rocks and in grass and in trees, and they burrow into the ground..."

"I would fill a bowl with honey."

"Mana! Snakes don't eat honey!"

"No, but you do. And since the snakes would be you, they would like honey very much."

He thinks that this is a very solid point.

By the time they reach home, the sun is settling beneath the Aegean sea and the sound of waves is like the stretching of a cat. The biting, wheezing insects that torture them in the summer have diminished with the coming winter, but they will sleep beneath the _konopion _all the same. And although she tells him he's becoming too big to carry – "a great big boulder" – they cross the doorway with his head tucked against the crook of her neck.

"Mana? Even if you found all the snakes, how would you tie them back together again?"

"Hmm...I don't think I would need to." She turns her head and kisses his hair curl, the one that they share. "You know why?"

"Nn-nnh."

"I think you would be able to put yourself right back together again. Because you're too good a boy to be happy as a swarm of snakes...and, also, because you know how much I'd miss you."

His eyes are closed, and he knows she must presume he's nearing sleep; in fact, he's thinking about how fascinating it is that his mother can smell of bread and sunlight and olives while still carrying the thin, bronze scent of her xiphos and shield. His mind passes over Medusa and the snakes that are her legacy, seeking out the cool beneath the Libyan desert, and wonders what it must feel like to be so far from home.

"I won't turn into snakes," he decides. "Or anything else."

He feels his mother smile.

"I'm very glad to hear that."

* * *

><p>Termonology, with apologies for any errors.<p>

_Mana_ – Mama.

_-ion_ – Affectionate diminutive used in ancient Greek. Supposedly, one of Socrates' friends referred to him as "Socratidion."

_Papai'_ – Ancient Greek, an exclamation.

_Konopion_ – Mosquito net

_Xiphos_ – Double edged, leaf shaped sword wielded in ancient Greece. Would have been made of iron in the classical period - however, my Ancient Greece is stubborn and insists her bronze xiphos is more durable.


	3. Golden: Kievan Rus and children

**Disclaimer:** Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this fictional work.

**Characters:** Kievan Rus, Ukraine, Russia, Belarus.

**Summary: **A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.

* * *

><p>Outside, the storm is raging once again. A high, empty wail of ice and snow careening through the air, transforming their windows into dead eyes.<p>

Inside, three figures wait with backs flush to the wall, breath hushed deliberately so as to catch the sounds emanating from within the kitchen; fire and steam, liquid and sugar, footsteps and the light clatter of silver.

Never once do they think of peering around the archway to look. None among them is that daring.

Ukraine stands deliberately back, letting her siblings occupy the space closest to the doorway. She'll do anything to keep them quiet and patient until the moment arrives, but she is young, not their mother, and the contents of that kettle around the corner are sweet and forbidden. They are restless, have been restless.

Belarus tugs on her dress and asks, in a voice like thin smoke, "Do you think she's done?" Ukraine smooths her hair.

"Shh. Not yet, Bela. Soon." She calls her little sister this as often as she can; knows it makes her feel important, like she's already a country with fingertips poised over the flow of history.

"How soon?"

"Mama has to get the things ready. She wants it to be perfect, after we've all been waiting for days."

The little girl blinks inkishly.

"How soon?" she repeats.

Russia looks back at them, a smile on his round face.

"_Sestrenka's _going to get drunk..."

Belarus's eyes narrow to near slits. Setting her jaw, she aims a kick at her brother's ankle, too quick for him to dodge, but not so quickly that he is able to swallow the cry of pain. Teeth gritted, he throws one at her leg. So she throws one at his leg, harder, and then they're striking out at one another with their feet, too hard to be playful. Before Ukraine can stop either of them, their mother is calling out sharply from the kitchen.

"_Bid Voha_! All of you, keep quiet or I'll throw you out in the snow!"

They obey with unfailing haste; not because she has ever made good on this threat before, but because they have never been able to decipher what their mother is and isn't capable of. All of them have been made to memorize the Russkaya Pravda with its uses of fines and limits on blood feud, the way it refuses to execute its own countrymen. At the same time, they have also seen her trudge up the path after a conflict with the east, never attempting to conceal the crusted bandages that mark her body. They know the ache of having been made to stand against the wall, ramrod straight, for hours on end.

Russia begins rubbing at the paint on the wall. Belarus gravitates back into Ukraine, who puts a hand about her back.

This is her job, Ukraine knows. She is meant to protect them in a way no one else possibly can; the eldest and the only one their mother refers to by her country name. The one she comes to after the house has gone quiet, sharing in every prosperity, grief, and turmoil – and, as of late, saying things that frighten Ukraine. How Byzantine has fallen, leaving behind an orphaned son and a set of dying trade routes. How no nation lasts forever and there is no shame in an honorable defeat, so long as the foundation for new growth is strong.

The house perfumes with warm honey.

Finally, she hails them inside.

They shuffle in like farmers walking the streets of Kiev for the first time after years on the steppes, see their mother's broadly elegant back, shoulders shifting beneath the red dyed wool of her rubakah. Hands quick and short hair the color of baking bread. Sitting at the table are three delicate silver cups, the ones she keeps locked away – an ancient gift from their grandmother, Scythia. They take their places, careful to sit up straight.

"Is it done, mama?" Russia inquires, and while she doesn't respond, neither does she berate him for asking the obvious. Ukraine knows why; it is on his small shoulders that all her hopes and dreams for the future rest. She has always been lenient with him – expecting, but also tolerating, far more. This

is where the fierce reds of strike marks on the backs of his hands originate. This is why he is the only one allowed to fall asleep on her shoulder, twirling a strand of his own hair.

She pours the _med _out equally between them, candlelight striking the golden nectar, highlighted with miniscule bubbles of fermentation. They don't take their cups until she sits down across from them. For a moment, it feels as though they're about to receive a reading lesson.

"Go ahead, now. Drink."

And they do.

Ukraine feels it, the warmth that is the first thing to hit her tongue. Given the cold, their mother has taken care to gently heat the drink through. Next comes the sweetness, thick and fanning out across her palate the way new cream does when spooned from the top of the rising pan; the glide of bitterness that makes this so, rather than detracting from it. Finally, the gentle burn of new alcohol.

Their mother watches them over folded fingers, their wide eyes and overjoyed expressions. She arches an eyebrow, thin as a quill.

"Good, then?"

They grasp about the silence for words – the right words. A way to say that it tastes like sweet fire, so much meaningful than milk, because she made it especially for them and because this is _med _and not everyone can have it. There are many things they'd like to say, but will never get a chance to because Belarus cries out in a voice shimmering with laughter.

"It's like drinking money!"

And then, in the space of a heartbeat, everything stops.

Ukraine manages to catch Russia's eye for a moment, see the fear that makes a small child of him once more, before they both go rigid. A silly, young thing to say, the very thing their mother can't stand. They stare at her, waiting to see how she will respond, and Ukraine's throat feels tight and sick for her baby sister, who will never be their mother's confidant or be trusted with hopes of any kind –

Just when it seems the shriek of the storm will reign between them forever, Kievan Rus smiles. Faintly. An old memory of a smile.

"Yes, little one. Just like drinking money."

The relief washes over, and with it a sort of truce. They will ask questions without hesitation – How did she make it? Is it really given away for weddings? – and she will give answers freely. For once, they will laugh openly.

The night will come when their mother takes their hands, crushes them together, and commands with the last of herself to keep holding on..._you do not let go._

Tonight is not that night.

Tonight, they drink from silver vessels like grown ups. Tonight, they feel loved.

* * *

><p>Termonology<p>

_Sistrenka_ - Russian, "little sister."

_Bid Voha_ - Ukranian, "By God." Technically, Kievan Rus should be speaking Old East Slavic, but google didn't want to yield any actual examples of that.

_Med_ - Rus word for medovukha, a drink made from fermented honey somewhat similar to mead.


	4. Midnight Sounds: England and America

**Disclaimer:** Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this work of fiction.

**Characters:** England and America  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1901, because I had way too much fun with this one.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: England being politically incorrect.

* * *

><p>"Absolutely not. Under any circumstances."<p>

America's eyes widened as though he'd been slapped.

"But why?" he asked, voice inching higher and speaking of unimaginable betrayal.

"Because it's completely improper," England replied as severely as he could whilst standing in a nightgown. "Children sleep in their own beds. It isn't up for discussion."

Just behind the ragged left ear of his stuffed bear, the small pink lip began to quiver. England, however, was standing firm on this. They may not have had the most money and this may have been a vast, lonely country, but that was no excuse for a lack of discipline. Caving to every single night terror...perhaps that dirty frog France indulged in that sort of depraved, indulgent parenting, but this was _his _colony, by God, and he was going to bring _his_ colony up properly.

"I can't go back! There are sounds outside my window! They're going to kill me if I go back in there!"

Even if said colony was looking over his shoulder into the black hallway as though it were equipped with a set of teeth.

"Those are just ordinary night noises and they are most certainly not going to 'kill you,'" England informed, even as he wrestled the softening in his heart, trying to keep it from reaching his eyes. "Now, you're going to turn around, go to your room, close your eyes, and go to sleep."

"Please!"

"No!"

"_I'm scared!"_

"Alfred!"

America gave a faint, thick, broken hiccup, trying valiantly not to cry; to keep a stiff upper lip, just as England had always instructed him. Through shimmering eyes as blue as the summer horizon, he stared balefully at his guardian.

England stared back.

America sniffed.

England sighed.

"Just this once."

The words had scarcely passed his lips, tasting heavily of his own weakness, when America's arms were around his waist and his cheek nuzzling the thick material of his evening wear. England gave him a loose embrace, inwardly cursing himself all the while. "Yes, yes...come on. Into bed with you before I change my mind." Moments later, the boy was flying past and burrowing into his sheets.

Well...well, it weren't as though anyone else needed to know. And in any case, who were they to judge? It may have been the custom of some other countries, less enlightened countries, to send their frightened children away into the dark, heedless of how it may affect their growth and development...he was not so negligent! And he would have at anyone who dared suggest he was! Thus decided, he returned to his bed with an entirely clear resolve...and didn't object when America nestled into the space between his arm and chest, golden cowlick bobbing like a little quail's.

"I really did hear sounds, ya know," the boy whispered. England reminded him that they were in the middle of the forest, surrounded by literally hundreds of noises on any given night. "Not like that. Really _bad_ sounds, the scary kind. Loud ones."

"Likely just some foxes courting."

"What's courting?"

"Playing games. Go to sleep, now." America's eyes closed obediently, remaining so some thirty seconds later, when the voice rose again.

"England? Are there foxes where you live, too?"

"There are."

"And cows?"

"And cows, plenty of cows."

A breeze outside picked up, setting the tree limbs scraping the walls.

"...And birds?"

"America, we have all of those things in England. We have everything there. No more talking. Go to sleep."

To his endless surprise, America proceeded to do just that, nodding and uttering a "'night, England" that made him feel as though his centuries-old store of inner grit and fortitude had just been breached and replaced with several thousand baby chicks. The child's breath began to fall on his neck in little puffs that smelled of the berries he had been eating all day; if there had ever been an Arthur Kirkland who pillaged shores and swallowed rum like clear water, here was the proof of his undoing.

Slender, scrubbed fingers closed around a swatch of excess fabric, gently holding onto it. England closed his eyes.

Rum did no favors for his stomach, anyhow.

He was just beginning to slip into a soft half-dream, the focus of which was on fruit fool and wide brimmed hats, when he heard it...an absolutely blood-curdling scream piercing the air beside his ear. He jumped bolt upright just in time for America to fly against his chest, one knee colliding with his bladder and liver simultaneously (England didn't even know how that was anatomically _possible._)

"Alfred! Alfred, what is it?" He choked out, trying to hold him with one arm, fumble around ineffectively for his flintlock with the other, and nurse his internal organs by sheer force of adrenaline.

"That's it!" America cried as though the gates of hell had opened before their door. "That's the sound!"

"What sound?"

"THAT!"

And even over his dry, shrieking sobs, England heard it too; a terrible, blood-soaked cry, like a woman screaming off in the forest. High and petrifying and close enough that they might have gone to the window and waited for her to come running by, pale as an hours old death. He was suddenly filled with nothing but sympathy for his colony, because it nearly set him quaking too.

He wrapped the little body in his arms, hushing into the wave of flaxen hair. "Shh, shh, America...my Alfred. It's only a panther. Just a large cat." The boy's face was pressed tight between his neck and shoulder, arms locked behind him. "Just a large housecat, wanting to make some noise."

"A cat?" England nodded.

"That's right. And it's off in the forest, and can't possibly get in through these heavy walls to reach us."

The trembling lessened off, just the slightest. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

To his utmost relief, America quieted enough to turn from him, actually daring to look at the darkened window across the room. He was just about to allow himself the satisfaction of a smart bit of parenting when the infernal thing decided that was the perfect time to begin screeching again, sending the boy right back into his arms again and filling England's head with visions of musket fire and fur rugs. Let that teach it to frighten his child.

"Why do they have to sound like that?" America despaired.

England, exhausted and rapidly ticking through a list of things he despised about this savage mess of a land mass, abandoned all pretense of poise and blurted out, "Because they're ridiculous creatures, that's why." He sighed, opting for a different approach. "You know, America. You're rather fortunate to actually know what it is making those frightening sounds. When I was your age, we believed in any number of horrible beasts living out amongst the hills."

"Like panthers?"

"What? No. There are no panthers where I live."

The little brow furrowed in consternation. "I thought you said they had everything in England."

Oh, blast all.

"We do! Of course we do! Everything but panthers." He rushed on before America drew any more attention to his fumble, as he knew he would have done. "And do you know, I was absolutely terrified of the bugbear."

America raised his head from the crook of his guardian's neck. "Bugbear? What's a bugbear?"

"A great, ratty old bear that lived in the darkest part of the forest." If nothing else, he knew this would get America's mind off panthers. The boy was forever trying to bring home cubs he found in the wilderness.

"Like the ones around here?"

"Much bigger! With flaming red eyes and claws as long as your body. Great gobs of weed and muck hanging from its fur, walking the paths at night, looking for children to carry off to its den and swallow whole."

"That's_ so cool!"_ America exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed as the trade that had just occurred – a fear-stricken child for an over-stimulated one – began to make itself very apparent to England. He wondered if there would be time to nap tomorrow, somewhere between the cooking and the mound of sewing to be done. "I want to see one!"

"Well, I'm sorry. Because there are no bugbears. The old people made them up as a story to keep children from straying into the forest."

America's face fell. "Oh...so they're not real? Kind of like unicorns?"

"America. You know unicorns get offended when their existence is called into question."

"Sorry. Umm...so kind of like the Deer-Woman?"

"...What in Heaven's name is a 'Deer-Woman?'"

"She's half-lady, half-deer," America stated matter-of-factly. Disregarding England's horrified expression, he went on with an air that suggested he was positively thrilled to know something the older country did not. "She has the deer half on the bottom and the lady half on the-"

"_Alfred!_ Where are you learning such vulgarity?" he demanded, suspecting France.

"From the people who lived here first."

"I thought I told you to keep away from those people!"

America ducked his head sheepishly. "Sorry..."

"I'll say you are," England scolded, more bitingly than necessary. Roanoke may never have held a place of warmth or closeness in his life, but his loss often stole into the older country's mind. The thought of the same fate befalling America – _his _America – who borrowed his socks and begged him for stories and took his heart in ways Roanoke never had..."Perhaps I should carry you back to your room right now?"

America's eyes widened in oncoming panic.

"No! No, I'm going to sleep! I'm going, see?" And he threw himself down against the bed, wrapping the blankets around himself in less time than it took England to feel like a complete and utter monster, paranoia or no.

"Oh, come now," he said with another sigh. "I'm not going to carry you back."

"...You aren't?"

"Quite certain." And then, with a smile, "But no more talk of...Deer-Women. Understood?"

A bitten lip signaled the laugh he was stifling. For a moment, England thought he recognized himself at that age. "Understood."

America couldn't become Roanoke, he realized. They were simply bound too close to slip apart now.

In the silence that followed, England could hear the earliest of birds sending up the first notes of their dawn chorus. The crickets had ceased their chirping; although the heavy tree cover cast their home in complete darkness, he could imagine the sky fading to grayish-blue with the coming sun. He pulled the blanket up to America's chin.

"That panther's gone to bed by now," he whispered, curling in close. "We should do the same."

The little voice was soft in its reply. "'Kay..."

"Good night, America."

"'Night, England."

Just above the sounds of morning, their hearts were beating together out of sync...and that was just fine. England slipped into the spaces between, where quiet reigned; headed for what was sure to be the most peaceful sleep he'd ever found.

"England? Do they have pumpkins where you come from?"


	5. A Winter Morning: France and Canada

**Disclaimer:** Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this work of fiction.

**Characters:** France and Canada.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 1131  
><strong>Summary: <strong>A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.  
><strong>AN: **Happy belated holidays, everyone! I hope this chapter serves as an adequate "happy winter" offering, whether or not you actually get snow.

* * *

><p>"Matthieu," France whispers, tapping the massive tangle of blankets that is his son. "Matthieu, <em>réveilles<em>. Papa has something to show you."

Said pile replies with a thin whine and a deliberate turn towards the opposite wall.

"Go away."

He persists, giving a gentle shake to what he thinks is a shoulder, but may well be a head or knee. His voice is breathless with not-quite-affected excitement. "Come see, it is the most beautiful thing!"

A tiny, pale hand emerges from between the layers of banded wool blanket, gropes about until it finds his face, and issues it a weak shove. "No!"

That gives France a moment of pause. He hates to wake him, knows how cold this winter has been and how much the boy loves sleeping in on cold mornings. But then he remembers what he saw outside, how it had taken his breath away; this is something he wants Canada to remember when he is an old, old country, and little things have ceased to be so magical. He pulls the child into his arms, blankets and all, careful not to disturb Kumajirou, who is sleeping at the foot of the bed like a great lump of rising bread dough.

"See? There, this is much better. No cold feet on the floor." True to his nature, Canada doesn't argue the point for very long, curling his feet up into the warmth of the hanging sheets and draping his arms around France's neck. He mumbles something indistinguishable, and France realizes that there is a very real possibility of him falling asleep on the way downstairs. Well, he decides, such will be. "Oh, come now. You can stay awake all the way into the next room, can't you? My strong boy...I promise, you'll like this."

"Polar bears?" mumbles Canada, with a pinch more alertness. France gives a soft laugh that turns to steam in the frigid air.

"No, not polar bears. We can see those in the daytime, all year around. This is very special."

They head across the wooden hallway, past the storage locker full of things smoked and richly scented, past the furs waiting to be rolled and traded. All of this will serve to make Canada strong, and he can feel the heft of that growth now, but the time where he can cannot the boy without difficulty has not come quite yet, and Canada's feather-soft cheek lolls against his chest.

They stop before the window, all the world before them buried beneath a deep blanket of snow. Through the dark skeletons of trees, there is a perfectly clear patch of sky to be seen, a trace of distant mountain peaks

"Look, _mon petit_. There it is."

And Canada opens his violet eyes, rubs at them...and suddenly widens them, sleep forgotten. For it is not what lays beyond the window, but the crystalline cover of frost spreading across the panes; in each one, a palette of edges and sharp points, dainty leaves of ferns, heads of wheat stalks, silver birds' feathers. The sun rising over the frozen hills is creeping out across the glass, giving a soft pink tint to each intricate design. A small breath catches in Canada's throat. "So pretty..."

France smiles. "_Les_ _fleurs de givre_."

Canada glances back up at him for a moment, only to have his attention drawn back to the window patterns just as quickly. "_Les fleurs_?"

"Yes. Flowers made of frost."

"Who made them?"

"The winter made them," France replies, thinking of those frightful stories England is forever plying America with – elfin men drawing on the windows with their knives and nipping toes and he shudders to think what else – and how fortunate it is that Canada won't grow up needing such ridiculous trappings to enjoy a simple thing like frost on the window pane. "They always come in with the snow."

Canada is pressing the tip of his index finger to one of the designs. "This one...looks like a moth's wing." When he pulls his hand away, the wing's outline is smudged from the warmth of his skin. France leans in for a closer look.

"Ahh, you're right. And this one over here is a little like the fur on a fox's tail, _non?_"

But this time, Canada's only answer is a single, far away nod. His eyes are full of the crystal reflections now, as though he needs only to reach out and push his hand through for the glass to bend and give way and let him see a world the walls hold back.

If France skims through the centuries of memory cluttered about his own head, he thinks he can just remember being that young, when the world was wider and moments of wonder easier to find. When his own papa was still alive.

The fire is unlit, the cabin terribly cold, and soon his fingers begin to ache. He lays a kiss to Canada's blonde curls. "Well, _mon petit_. Ready to go back to bed?" The boy shakes his head. "No?"

"They won't be the same later."

And if it's an observation on the nature of melting frost or a moment of deeper clarity, France isn't able to tell.

"One can never be sure of that. It's very cold outside, remember, and frost lasts longer than say, a snowball. Remember, the time you tried to keep snowballs in the house?" Canada doesn't look terribly convinced. "I'll tell you what...if it begins to melt away completely, Papa will wake you up and bring you out to see it one more time."

"How will you know they're melting?"

"Oh, I can just tell these things. Your Papa is the smartest man in the world, is he not?"

Canada covers his mouth, nibbling his thumb to hide the faint smile appearing on his face. "...Maybe."

"Maybe? _Mon Dieu! _I am betrayed! My heart is broken!" And France kisses his neck and cheeks until his morning stubble scratches and Canada recants through peals of shrieking laughter, while the images of ferns and plumages begin to soften in the new light.

Their feather bed is warm and deep with duck down, and they return to it with some discussion of what they will have for breakfast ("Can we have syrup?" "We can have our breakfast _with _syrup.") France closes his eyes and drifts to the sound of the wispy breaths, the gentle weight pillowed on his stomach, but he is not quite asleep when he feels the mattress shift and hears the patter of Canada's footsteps crossing the cold floor like hot coals.

They don't go farther than the doorway, however. France opens his eyes for a glimpse of his son and sees all he needs to.

There, from around the corner, Canada gives the frost flowers a last, lingering look, as though he's saying goodbye.


End file.
